The Weird Part 24

The clothes were empty; two artificial hands and a wax head were attached to them. My bullet had gone through the wig and broken the nose.

You already know Ballister's story. He told it to us when he woke up toward the end of that infernal night. He spoke serenely, with a kind of happiness.

We took devoted care of him. There were two holes in his left shoulder, as though he had been stabbed twice, but we would have saved him if we had been able to stop his bleeding, because no essential organs had been damaged.

After having talked so much, he lapsed into a coma. When he came out of it later, he asked how he had been injured. Briggs was the only one with him at the time. Glad to have a chance to make himself interesting, he replied that in the middle of the night he had seen a dark shape rush into the forecastle and strike Ballister. He then told him about the shot and showed him the grotesque remains.

At this sight, Ballister cried out in terror.

'The schoolmaster! The schoolmaster!'

He fell into a painful fever and did not regain consciousness until six days later, in the maritime hospital in Galway, where he kissed the image of Christ and died.

The tragic mannequin was taken to Reverend Leemans, a worthy ecclesiastic who has been all over the world and knows many of the secrets of savage lands and the sea.

He examined it for a long time.

'What can have been inside it?' asked Archie Reines. 'There surely was something in it. It was alive.'

'Yes, it was alive all right, I can tell you that,' grumbled Jolks, rubbing his red, swollen neck.

Reverend Leemans sniffed the thing like a dog, then cast it aside with disgust.

'I thought so,' he said.

We also sniffed it.

'It smells of formic acid,' I said.

'And phosphorus,' added Reines.

Captain Cormon reflected for a moment, then his lips quivered a little when he said, 'It smells like an octopus.'

Leemans stared at him.

'On the last day of Creation,' he said, 'it is from the sea that G.o.d will cause the Blasphemous Beast to appear. Let us not try to antic.i.p.ate destiny with impious inquiries.'

'But...,' began Reines.

' "Who is this that darkeneth counsel by words without knowledge?"'

Before the Holy Word, we bowed our heads and gave up trying to understand.

The Shadowy Street.

Jean Ray.

Translated into English by Lowell Blair.

Jean Ray (18871964) was a Belgian writer of cla.s.sic weird tales sadly unknown to most contemporary English-language readers. He also wrote one novel, Malpertuis (1943), which was subsequently made into a film by Harry k.u.mel during 1971 (starring Orson Welles). In addition to 'The Mainz Psalter' reprinted earlier in this volume, Jean Ray wrote the chilling 'The Shadowy Street' (1931) during a stint in prison, just as H. P. Lovecraft was publis.h.i.+ng some of his most cla.s.sic tales. Later in the 1930s, Ray would have four stories published in Weird Tales. He is considered by many the Poe, or Lovecraft, of the French language.

On a Rotterdam dock, winches were fis.h.i.+ng bales of old paper from the hold of a freighter. The wind was fluttering the multicolored streamers that hung from the bales when one of them burst open like a cask in a roaring fire. The longsh.o.r.emen hastily scooped up some of the rustling ma.s.s, but a large part of it was abandoned to the joy of the little children who gleaned in the eternal autumn of the waterfront.

There were beautiful Pearsons engravings, cut in half by order of Customs; green and pink bundles of stocks and bonds, the last echoes of resounding bankruptcies; pitiful books whose pages were still joined like desperate hands. My cane explored that vast residue of thought, in which neither shame nor hope was now alive.

Amid all that English and German prose I found a few pages of France: copies of Le Magasin Pittoresque, solidly bound and somewhat scorched by fire.

It was in looking through those magazines, so adorably ill.u.s.trated and so dismally written, that I found the two ma.n.u.scripts, one in German, the other in French. Their authors had apparently been unaware of each other, and yet the French ma.n.u.script seemed to cast a little light on the black anguish that rose from the German one like a noxious vapor insofar as any light can be shed on that story which appears to be haunted by such sinister and hostile forces!

The cover bore the name Alphonse Archipetre, followed by the word Lehrer. I shall translate the German pages: The German Ma.n.u.script.

I am writing this for Hermann, when he comes back from sea.

If he does not find me here, if I, along with my poor friends, have been swallowed up by the savage mystery that surrounds us, I want him to know our days of horror through this little notebook. It will be the best proof of my affection that I can give him, because it takes real courage for a woman to keep a journal in such hours of madness. I am also writing so that he will pray for me, if he believes my soul to be in peril...

After the death of my Aunt Hedwige, I did not want to go on living in our sad Holzdamm house. The Ruckhardt sisters offered to let me stay with them. They lived in a big apartment on the Deichstra.s.se, in the s.p.a.cious house of Councillor Huhnebein, an old bachelor who never left the first floor, which was littered with books, paintings, and engravings.

Lotte, Eleonore, and Meta Ruckhardt were adorable old maids who used all their ingenuity in trying to make life pleasant for me. Frida, our maid, came with me; she found favor in the eyes of the ancient Frau Pilz, the Ruckhardts' inspired cook, who was said to have turned down ducal offers in order to remain in the humble service of her mistresses.

That evening....

On that evening, which was to bring unspeakable terror into our calm lives, we had decided against going to a celebration in Tempelhof, because it was raining in torrents. Frau Pilz, who liked to have us stay home, had made us an outstanding supper: grilled trout and a guinea-hen pie. Lotte had searched the cellar and come up with a bottle of Cape brandy that had been aging there for over twenty years. When the table had been cleared, the beautiful dark liquor was poured into gla.s.ses of Bohemian crystal. Eleonore served the Lapsang Souchong tea that an old Bremen sailor brought back to us from his voyages.

Through the sound of the rain we heard the clock of Saint Peter's strike eight. Frida was sitting beside the fire. Her head drooped over her ill.u.s.trated Bible; she was unable to read it, but she liked to look at the pictures. She asked for permission to go to bed. The four of us who remained went on sorting colored silks for Meta's embroidery.

Downstairs, the councillor noisily locked his bedroom door. Frau Pilz went up to her room, bade us good night through the door, and added that the bad weather would no doubt prevent us from having fresh fish for dinner the next day. A small cascade was splattering loudly on the pavement from a broken rain gutter on the house next door. A strong wind came thundering down the street; the cascade was dispersed into a silvery mist, and a window slammed shut on one of the upper stories.

'That's the attic window,' said Lotte. 'It won't stay closed.' She raised the garnet-red curtain and looked down at the street. 'I've never seen it so dark before. I'm not sleepy, and I certainly have no desire to go to bed. I feel as though the darkness of the street would follow me, along with the wind and the rain.'

'You're talking like a fool,' said Eleonore, who was not very gentle. 'Well, since no one is going to bed, let's do as men do and fill our gla.s.ses again.'

She went off to get three of those beautiful Sieme candles that burn with a pink flame and give off a delightful smell of flowers and incense.

I felt that we all wanted to give a festive tone to that bleak evening, and that for some reason we were unsuccessful. I saw Eleonore's energetic face darkened by a sudden shadow of ill-humor. Lotte seemed to be having difficulty in breathing. Only Meta was leaning placidly over her embroidery, and yet I sensed that she was attentive, as though she were trying to detect a sound in the depths of the silence.

Just then the door opened and Frida came in. She staggered over to the armchair beside the fire and sank into it, staring wild-eyed at each of us in turn.

'Frida!' I cried. 'What's the matter?'

She sighed deeply, then murmured a few indistinct words.

'She's still asleep,' said Eleonore.

Frida shook her head forcefully and made violent efforts to speak. I handed her my gla.s.s of brandy and she emptied it in one gulp, like a coachman or a porter. Under other circ.u.mstances we would have been offended by this vulgarity, but she seemed so unhappy, and the atmosphere in the room had been so depressing for the past few minutes, that it pa.s.sed unnoticed.

'Fraulein,' said Frida, 'there's...' Her eyes, which softened for a moment, resumed their wild expression. 'I don't know...'

Eleonore uttered an impatient exclamation.

'What have you seen or heard? What's wrong with you, Frida?'

'Fraulein, there's...' Frida seemed to reflect deeply. 'I don't know how to say it...There's a great fear in my room.'

'Oh!' said all three of us, rea.s.sured and apprehensive at the same time.

'You've had a nightmare,' said Meta. 'I know how it is: you hide your head under the covers when you wake up.'

'No, that's not it,' said Frida. 'I hadn't been dreaming. I just woke up, that's all, and then...How can I make you understand? There's a great fear in my room....'

'Good heavens, that doesn't explain anything!' I said.

Frida shook her head in despair: 'I'd rather sit outside in the rain all night than go back to that room. No, I won't go back!'

'I'm going to see what's happening up there, you fool!' said Eleonore, throwing a shawl over her shoulders.

She hesitated for a moment before her father's old rapier, hanging among some university insignia. Then she shrugged, picked up the candlestick with its pink candles, and walked out, leaving a perfumed wake behind her.

'Oh, don't let her go there alone!' cried Frida, alarmed.

We slowly went to the staircase. The flickering glow of Eleonore's candlestick was already vanis.h.i.+ng on the attic landing.

We stood in the semidarkness at the foot of the stairs. We heard Eleonore open a door. There was a minute of oppressive silence. I felt Frida's hand tighten on my waist.

'Don't leave her alone,' she moaned.

Just then there was a loud laugh, so horrible that I would rather die than hear it again. Almost at the same time, Meta raised her hand and cried out, 'There!...There!...A face....There....'

The house became filled with sounds. The councillor and Frau Pilz appeared in the yellow haloes of the candles they were holding.

'Fraulein Eleonore!' sobbed Frida. 'Dear G.o.d, how are we going to find her?'

It was a frightening question, and I can now answer it: We never found her.

Frida's room was empty. The candlestick was standing on the floor and its candles were still burning peacefully, with their delicate pink flames.

We searched the whole house and even went out on the roof. We never saw Eleonore again.

We could not count on the help of the police, as will soon be seen. When we went to the police station, we found that it had been invaded by a frenzied crowd; some of the furniture had been overturned, the windows were covered with dust, and the clerks were being pushed around like puppets. Eighty people had vanished that night, some from their homes, others while they were on their way home!

The world of ordinary conjectures was closed to us; only supernatural apprehensions remained.

Several days went by. We led a bleak life of tears and terror.

Councillor Huhnebein had the attic sealed off from the rest of the house by a thick oak part.i.tion.

One day I went in search of Meta. We were beginning to fear another tragedy when we found her squatting in front of the part.i.tion with her eyes dry and an expression of anger on her usually gentle face. She was holding her father's rapier in her hand, and seemed annoyed at having been disturbed.

We tried to question her about the face she had glimpsed, but she looked at us as though she did not understand. She remained completely silent. She did not answer us, and even seemed unaware of our presence.

All sorts of wild stories were being repeated in the town. There was talk of a secret criminal league; the police were accused of negligence, and worse; public officials had been dismissed. All this, of course, was useless.

Strange crimes had been committed: savagely mutilated corpses were found at dawn. Wild animals could not have shown more ardent l.u.s.t for carnage than the mysterious attackers. Some of the victims had been robbed, but most of them had not, and this surprised everyone.

But I do not want to dwell on what was happening in the town; it will be easy to find enough people to tell about it. I will limit myself to the framework of our house and our life, which, though narrow, still enclosed enough fear and despair.

The days pa.s.sed and April came, colder and windier than the worst month of winter. We remained huddled beside the fire. Sometimes Councillor Huhnebein came to keep us company and give us what he called courage. This consisted in trembling in all his limbs, holding his hands out toward the fire, drinking big mugs of punch, starting at every sound, and crying out five or six times an hour, 'Did you hear that? Did you hear?...'

Frida tore some of the pages out of her Bible, and we found them pinned or pasted on every door and curtain, in every nook and cranny. She hoped that this would ward off the spirits of evil. We did not interfere, and since we spent several days in peace we were far from thinking it a bad idea.

We soon saw how terribly mistaken we were. The day had been so dark, and the clouds so low, that evening had come early. I was walking out of the living room to put a lamp on the broad landing for ever since the terrifying night we had placed lights all over the house, and even the halls and stairs remained lighted till dawn when I heard voices murmuring on the top floor.

It was not yet completely dark. I bravely climbed the stairs and found myself before the frightened faces of Frida and Frau Pilz, who motioned me to be silent and pointed to the newly built part.i.tion.

I stood beside them, adopting their silence and attention. It was then that I heard an indefinable sound from behind the wooden wall, something like the faint roar of giant conch sh.e.l.ls, or the tumult of a faraway crowd.

'Fraulein Eleonore,...' moaned Frida.

The answer came immediately and hurled us screaming down the stairs: a long shriek of terror rang out, not from the part.i.tion above us, but from downstairs, from the councillor's apartment. Then he called for help at the top of his lungs. Lotte and Meta had hurried out onto the landing.

'We must go there,' I said courageously.

We had not taken three steps when there was another cry of distress, this time from above us.

'Help! Help!'

We recognized Frau Pilz's voice. We heard her call again, feebly.

Meta picked up the lamp I had placed on the landing. Halfway up the stairs we found Frida alone. Frau Pilz had disappeared.

At this point I must express my admiration of Meta Ruckhardt's calm courage.

'There's nothing more we can do here,' she said, breaking the silence she had stubbornly maintained for several days. 'Let's go downstairs....'

She was holding her father's rapier, and she did not look at all ridiculous, for we sensed that she would use it as effectively as a man.

We followed her, subjugated by her cold strength.

The councillor's study was as brightly lighted as a traveling carnival. The poor man had given the darkness no chance to get in. Two enormous lamps with white porcelain globes stood at either end of the mantelpiece, looking like two placid moons. A small Louis XV chandelier hung from the ceiling, its prisms flas.h.i.+ng like handfuls of precious stones. Copper and stone candlesticks stood on the floor in every corner of the room. On the table, a row of tall candles seemed to be illuminating an invisible catafalque.

We stopped, dazzled, and looked around for the councillor.

'Oh!' Frida exclaimed suddenly. 'Look, there he is! He's hiding behind the window curtain.'